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Literary Lapses
·
Stephen Leacock
82
From
his
earliest
childhood
John
Smith
was
marked
out
from
his
comrades
by
nothing.
The
marvellous
precocity
of
the
boy
did
not
astonish
his
preceptors.
Books
were
not
a
passion
for
him
from
his
youth,
neither
did
any
old
man
put
his
hand
on
Smith's
head
and
say,
mark
his
words,
this
boy
would
some
day
become
a
man.
Nor
yet
was
it
his
father's
wont
to
gaze
on
him
with
a
feeling
amounting
almost
to
awe.
By
no
means!
All
his
father
did
was
to
wonder
whether
Smith
was
a
darn
fool
because
he
couldn't
help
it,
or
because
he
thought
it
smart.
In
other
words,
he
was
just
like
you
and
me
and
the
rest
of
us.
In
those
athletic
sports
which
were
the
ornament
of
the
youth
of
his
day,
Smith
did
not,
as
great
men
do,
excel
his
fellows.
He
couldn't
ride
worth
a
darn.
He
couldn't
skate
worth
a
darn.
He
couldn't
swim
worth
a
darn.
He
couldn't
shoot
worth
a
darn.
He
couldn't
do
anything
worth
a
darn.
He
was
just
like
us.
Nor
did
the
bold
cast
of
the
boy's
mind
offset
his
physical
defects,
as
it
invariably
does
in
the
biographies.
On
the
contrary.
He
was
afraid
of
his
father.
He
was
afraid
of
his
school-teacher.
He
was
afraid
of
dogs.
He
was
afraid
of
guns.
He
was
afraid
of
lightning.
He
was
afraid
of
hell.
He
was
afraid
of
girls.
In
the
boy's
choice
of
a
profession
there
was
not
seen
that
keen
longing
for
a
life-work
that
we
find
in
the
celebrities.
He
didn't
want
to
be
a
lawyer,
because
you
have
to
know
law.
He
didn't
want
to
be
a
doctor,
because
you
have
to
know
medicine.
He
didn't
want
to
be
a
business-man,
because
you
have
to
know
business;
and
he
didn't
want
to
be
a
school-teacher,
because
he
had
seen
too
many
of
them.
As
far
as
he
had
any
choice,
it
lay
between
being
Robinson
Crusoe
and
being
the
Prince
of
Wales.
His
father
refused
him
both
and
put
him
into
a
dry
goods
establishment.
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